Isolophilia
by chrissie0707
Summary: Pre-tag for 14X04 "Mint Condition." Memories are starting to surface, slowly, painfully, and one at a time. The things Michael did when he was behind the wheel, when Dean was trapped in his own head. Like Chinese water torture, images and sensations piling on and weighing him down, threatening to drag him back underwater. But he's healing, in his own way.


_Takes place before ep 14X04. Just a little added angsty goodness._

* * *

 **Isolophilia**

It's been a few days now that he's been back. Really _back,_ not just running toward the finish line but trying to settle into the way things were and should be, but Dean's having a hard time finding his footing and getting back into the routine of everyday life. There's a lot going on in the bunker, a constant, dull roar of action, a scene in progress that he's been dropped unceremoniously into and can't quite made sense of.

The bunker is a decent-sized space with more than enough room – and actual rooms – for Dean, Sam, Cas, and even Jack to have their own individual haunts and respective corners. But there's _not_ enough room to maintain these quasi-private places when there are also two dozen apocalypse survivors roaming the halls. The garage and shooting gallery are no longer dependable escapes but are sure to be crawling with wannabe hunters who want to hear all about what happened while he was possessed. Even Dean's sacred mancave – which had taken five years of hard-to-come-by spare time to bring to perfect fruition – had become additional storage and bunk space while he was…away. Like Sammy hadn't expected him back so soon. Or maybe even at all.

He would run from all these unfamiliar, prying eyes, would find a close-ish bar or pool hall where no one recognizes him or knows the things he's done, but even to do that he'd have to go _through_ the unfamiliar, prying eyes and subject himself to more awkward small talk and those wary _it's him_ looks. Like Dean's dangerous, and has no business being here, when this is his _home_.

But beyond the four walls of his room, the bunker hardly feels like home anymore. Even Sam is different, in more ways than the beard. He's got a lot of responsibility on his plate, and not so much time for his brother. Which is just as well, because it gives Dean the opportunity to put his game face on in that moment between the knock on his door and Sam coming in.

He can make do in his room. He's done so before. He's got almost everything he needs right here.

Memories are starting to surface, slowly, painfully, and one at a time. The things Michael did when he was behind the wheel, when Dean was trapped in his own head. Like Chinese water torture, images and sensations piling on and weighing him down, threatening to drag him back underwater.

But he's healing, in his own way. Sleeping, a _lot_ , and spending his waking hours shut up in his room watching mind-numbing movies Sam can't sit through, while doing his damnedest to cram each and every one of those surfacing memories behind all the necessary mental blocks that allow him to smile and laugh and almost mean it. He's drinking more than usual, but not enough to raises any red flags with his brother. Just beer – or, mostly beer. Just something to fuzz out the sharper edges of the memories, but not enough to sink him. His appetite has returned with a vengeance, stomach aching viciously as his body becomes _his_ more and more every day. His thirst, his hunger, and his pain.

Dark Kaia's spear had been able to hurt Michael, but now that scar, and the arm its attached to, are fully Dean's. And if he sleeps on it wrong or rotates from his elbow in just the right way, he's got nothing but pins and needles in the limb, and tingling, useless fingers for the next few minutes. It's annoying, and should probably be concerning, but it's something he hasn't told his brother. Not that he's seen a whole lot of Sam, staying cooped up in his room the way he has.

Dean fidgets against the hard edge of headboard as he reaches for the beer on the bedside table, adjusts the laptop balanced on his legs. He winces, kneads a muscle in his upper back that's protesting the position. Yeah. He's not going to be able to put up with binge-watching slasher flicks on the laptop for much longer. The classics deserve the respect of a larger screen. Also, his back is killing him.

The only problem is, he's not actually sure he can manage bringing in the flat-screen on his own. Not with his arm already aching for no damn reason at all. Sam's already started giving him crap about confining himself to his room, so he goes looking for Cas instead, who doesn't have a history of asking as many questions.

It's late enough that the halls have emptied of all the new faces, and Dean finds the angel in the library, hunched over one of the tablets with a frustrated look on his face.

He leans on his left shoulder in the doorway and crosses his arms, frowns. "Are you…on the internet?"

"I think so. Although I'm not sure I'm doing it right." Cas sighs, tosses the tablet to the tabletop with disgust. "I told Jack I would take him hunting." He looks up at Dean thoughtfully. "How old were you when you hunted your first poltergeist?"

God, that was literal _lifetimes_ ago. Dean scrunches his nose. "Uh, twelve? Give or take?"

"So, younger than Jack?"

"Yeah. Younger than Jack." He shakes his head and steps farther into the room, crams his hands into his pockets. The few brief glimpses of Jack he's caught in passing, the kid's sure seemed paler than usual, like something's not quite right with him. Of course, Dean's not really in any position to be throwing stones at people who aren't looking or seeming like themselves, so he doesn't bring it up now. "He'll be fine. You've got his back." He stands at the end of the table, taps his fingers on the polished surface.

Cas sits back in his chair, gazes up at Dean expectantly.

"Hey, uh…" He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "You think you could give me a hand with something?"

"Of course," Cas answers, though he frowns suspiciously.

Dean realizes he's rubbing his heavy-feeling right arm, instead brings the hand up to scratch the back of his head. "I was just gonna move the TV. Not really a one-man job."

"Move it to where?"

So much for not asking questions.

When he doesn't answer, Cas nods knowingly. "To your room," he says slowly. "Which is why you're asking me to help you instead of Sam."

Dean shrugs, tries to keep the snark from his voice as he says, "he's probably too busy, anyway. Rallying the troops or whatever." He waves a hand. "Forget it. I'll figure it out."

"You mean you'll break it," Cas says with a sigh. He pushes up from his chair. "I'll help you."

There are boxes to move to get to the television, and that stings, but Dean keeps it from his face. His brother, Cas – they had no reason to believe Dean would back now. None of them have a good answer for why Michael jumped out after only four weeks, and that fact alone is enough to keep Dean on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He's been longing for the comfort of solitude to help him settle, but the silence in the hallway suddenly seems overwhelming. "When you were in heaven," he says, too loudly, "playing your harp or whatever the hell, did you ever think you'd end up moving furniture in an underground bunker in Kansas?"

On the other side of the large television, he can practically _feel_ Cas rolling his eyes. "No," the angel clips.

They settle the flat-screen on top of the bureau inside the door, the single usable flat surface in his room. It then takes Dean all of three seconds to realize that he's got a fucked-up head and a gimpy arm, and he's basically allowed himself to be cornered by one of the few people who know him well enough to see through his bullshit.

He clears his throat, tries to hurry Cas out of the room without making eye contact. "All right. Well, thanks for the help."

But Cas doesn't leave. Instead, he looks around the room, taking in the cluster of empty bottles collected on the bedside table, the short stack of greasy-bottomed pizza boxes on top of his desk, the small trash can that's overflowing onto the floor.

Dean keeps his eyes down, fiddles with the television's cords with increasingly numb fingers.

"Dean…"

He can already tell without looking up, can tell just from Cas's tone that he doesn't want any part of the forced positivity that's about to come from his friend.

"I said 'yes' to Lucifer," Cas says carefully, slowly. "I let him in, and I killed at least one of my brothers. I almost killed you and Sam."

Dean shakes his head. "That wasn't you, Cas, that was – "

Castiel lifts his chin, narrows his gaze pointedly.

Dean rolls his eyes, drops his chin. "Yeah. Okay." Not validating his friend's point, just acknowledging that he's made it.

"You did what you had to do to save your brother. To save Jack. Whatever…happens next, let that be what you remember."

 _Easier said than done._ By the time raises his eyes to the doorway, Cas is gone.

Dean stands in the middle of his room for a long moment, contemplating Cas's words and staring into the hallway as he flexes the fingers of his right hand. He can hear the low rumble of far-off voices, drawing nearer.

He steps forward, toward the voices, and firmly pushes the door closed.


End file.
